


Red Line

by Ad_Astra



Series: Adrenaline Rush [3]
Category: Free!
Genre: Established Relationship, Gamer mode!Makoto, M/M, Motorcycle AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:32:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3657369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ad_Astra/pseuds/Ad_Astra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let's make this a game."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rolic](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Rolic).



> For Rolic, she who showers us with MakoRin porn aplenty. Inspired by [her fanart](http://naturalvirtue.tumblr.com/post/111630332272/motorcycle-au-makorin) (NSFW).
> 
> Massive thanks to [ Attemptsonwords](http://archiveofourown.org/users/attemptsonwords) for the beta.
> 
> Also: check out the completely unintentional but somehow mind-breakingly fitting [SouHaru fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4072339) in the same universe, written by the lovely and talented [lisettedelapin!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lisettedelapin/)
> 
>  **EDIT (April 9, 2015):** Changed the rating to M, since on 2nd thought, I don't think the content is heavy enough to warrant an E rating

“Let's make this a game.”

 _A game,_ Rin says, as Makoto makes a tight turn into an alley, rubber squealing on cracked concrete, knocking down garbage cans and stray pipes. Bullets whizz by them, skidding across old brick walls, nicking the side of Makoto’s helmet. His pulse races as fast as his motorcycle and he feels Rin's arm untangling from him, reaching for his own leg, and for a moment, Makoto fears that Rin’s been hit.

Then he hears the zing of sharp metal as it's loosed from its sheath, a quicksilver flash, followed by the noise of wires snapping. From his side mirror, Makoto sees heavy bed sheets falling over one of their pursuers, obscuring their vision from the electricity pole directly in their way.

The sound of crunching metal has never sounded so delightful in Makoto’s ears. That’s the third one down and there’s three to go.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. This was supposed to be a simple negotiation, an exchange of goods for information on the gang who put Sousuke and Haru in the hospital. In the end, no negotiations took place and they almost stepped into a trap, had it not been for Rin’s instincts. Makoto could still smell the smoke, could feel the way the explosion singed the tips of their hair,  remembers the way his body slammed on the ground, when Rin pushed him down. Then the reinforcements came.

And now they’re here.

He bites his lip and makes a hard left breaking out into the main highway, tires carving a crescent of dust and dead grass as they cross over to the proper side of the road, their pursuers hot on their trail.

"Breathe," Rin instructs, arms tightening around Makoto's waist, gloved hands seeking out the hummingbird beat of Makoto's heart.

Makoto gulps, saliva and fear forcing their way down his throat and past the lump that might have been his beating heart. He does what Rin says, breathes the muggy air inside the space of his helmet, allowing oxygen to expand in his lungs (because this might be the last time he does, the last time the both of them do). They might die tonight, in the next hour, any minute, any second now—

“It’s just a game,” Rin repeats, cutting through Makoto’s thoughts like the butterfly knife he threw earlier.

 _Just a game, just a game_ , Makoto chants to himself, mind wrapping around the words, absorbing, assimilating it into his movements. His breath evens out, tempo hushing down, and the stiffness from his shoulders recedes, head slowly clearing out the fear.

When you make something into a game, you make things much simpler, and here, Makoto’s options are clear as day: win and live or lose and die.

Another bullet whizzes past, nicking the side of his helmet again, the sick sound of it reverberating in his skull. _(Too close, too close time to shift)_ He switches his driving pattern, makes use of the empty road, turns his straight lines crooked, confusing, misdirecting, making them a more difficult target instead of relying on his enemies inaccuracies.

Of course he knows it’s the farthest thing from mere playing; this is a matter of life and death, but this is _exactly_ why it’s so important to treat it like a game, so crucial to take this easy, shrug off the pressure like an unwanted cape, to pretend that they have more than one life to spare.

Statistics would tell you that pressure kills more than it saves, one wrong twist of the wrist, one degree too off to the side and both of them die, a mess of twisted metal and burning asphalt, blood and bone. This is a game, and inertia and gravity can either be your ally or your enemy, and they only choose the best players.

Makoto has every intention of being that player. He’s good at games and he loves to play; he loves the thrill of high stakes, and he most especially loves to _win_. His left foot goes through the motions, Neutral to Gear 5, right hand working the throttle, and the bike makes a roaring sound like a war cry. 

“You can handle this,” Rin hisses, before swinging his right arm back. A calculated pause, wrist twisting for a minute shift of trajectory, before Rin’s finger twitches on the trigger, and Makoto hears the sound of metal grinding against stone, as one motorcycle skids and crashes off the road, smoke hissing from the punctured front tire. A second later, Rin's right arm goes back around Makoto's waist, gun back in his holster.

 _Empty_ gun now, because that was Rin’s last bullet, and there are still two bikes on their trail, armed and hell-bent to destroy.

Accelerate, accelerate. _Breathe_.

In this frame of selective reality, Makoto’s bike is nothing less than a weapon, an arrow piercing the night; together with him and Rin, they become a single unit. Rin commands, Makoto steers.

“Lose them.”

It’s easier said than done, but then again, what's the point of playing, if it’s easy, if you have nothing to lose? The best games are the ones where the outcome is determined only at the last second, a game that holds your heart in your throat, a game where victory can mean the difference between a jerk of the wheel, a skipped breath, the quarter-inch shift of your left heel.

And Rin knows Makoto, knows this side of him that wouldn’t hesitate to take down anyone who gets in his way, and he knows how to draw it out, like poison from a wound.

Two more shots, one whistling by Makoto's head, the other grazing his side mirror, nearly shattering the glass. 

Makoto drags his focus back on the road, strangely empty of other vehicles. Looming fast ahead of him are two signs. To the right is another 25 kilometre stretch of road towards the next city, and the other one is the dangerous asphalt curves around the mountain. With his gas on low, both are virtually suicide, except that one option would kill them faster.

He chooses that, chooses left, the ominous mountain descent, and his pursuers follow suit.

Rin shifts ever so slightly behind him, pressing his chest against Makoto’s back, warm and solid, an intimate embrace, and Makoto knows he chose correctly. Rin’s rests his chin lightly on Makoto’s right shoulder, deep voice carrying across the wind.

“Faster.”

Makoto smiles, soft and dangerous. His blood is pure adrenaline at this point, and with Rin on command, he’s unstoppable, unbeatable.  Neutral to Gear 6, right wrist flicking down the throttle, and the rev counter arrow hits the red line.

They can’t outgun, but they can sure as hell outrun.

Faster they go, heading straight towards that sheer drop, accelerating as they approach the lip of the mountain, centripetal force keeping them from succumbing to the siren call of gravity, and Makoto counter steers as he hits the curve (lean on the right, steer a bit to the left)

Wind biting through leather, eyes on singular, manic focus, heartbeat pounding away, Newtonian physics as his sword and shield— all these are situations Makoto is intimately familiar with. Enemies and gunshots on his heel aren’t, but he’s got Rin at his back and that’s all the propulsion he needs, really.

There is no way they can lose.

The rear wheel kisses the edge of the road, kicking off a spray of pebbles towards the ocean below, and with a hard yank at the handlebars, they’re back on track.

One of their pursuers doesn’t make it, and Makoto hears Rin’s badly suppressed whoop when the other bike tries to skid to a stop, but only succeeds in dragging itself off the edge. Gravity takes another victim for the night.

One more. Makoto checks his dashboard. Fuel gauge is nearly empty; they’ll be running on fumes soon. They have to lose the other bike before that happens.

Another bullet whizzes past them, hitting a low lying branch, and Makoto’s vision is momentarily obscured by falling leaves.

He sees the headlights a split second later, hears Rin’s terrified gasp, and his body reacts, instincts and adrenaline guiding his everything as he puts his and Rin’s weight to the side and accelerates.

The truck passes by like a blurry ghost. They’re clear.

The last motorcycle isn’t so lucky.

~~~

The garage sensor detects Makoto’s bike and the steel door folds open. Makoto slips through, grips the brake, and skids to a stop.

There’s still smoke on the pavement when Rin bodily hauls Makoto from the bike, and he has barely taken off his helmet before Rin is pulling him down with the desperation of a cornered man.

Everything becomes a blur of lips seeking skin, gloved hands skimming across ribs, bolts and tools kicked to random corners of the room. Makoto’s hands are shaking as he pulls off Rin’s jacket, palm instinctively seeking the Kevlar on his back, counts three places where bullets have been lodged, and Makoto is hit by a fresh wave of crippling fear— _Rin could have died, we could’ve both died, if I failed they could have_ —

Rin cuts him off the second time that night, kissing him deeply, agonizingly and Makoto tastes salt on his tongue, feels water on the curve of his cheek. Rin hasn’t said anything yet, but his actions say it all, the rings of his fingers gliding over Makoto’s chest, never quite leaving his skin, as if Makoto would turn to ash in his mouth if he so much as lets go.

(Not a chance, I’m still here and I’m still _breathing._ )

Makoto reaches up, slowing them down (tap the brakes, clutch and downshift) palms curving over Rin’s cheeks, damp with still-flowing tears. His face is scrunched up, lips trembling, emotions writ large all over his face, and Makoto knows that Rin hates being vulnerable, even in the aftermath of a death race.

Death race. The game Makoto just played and won. He’s almost forgotten how good that feels. The adrenaline is still hot in his veins, and it’s addicting; a drug of the highest order, and Makoto knows that Rin feels the same.

Now he knows how to stop Rin from crying.

“Let’s make this a game,” Makoto whispers against Rin’s lips, and Rin’s eyes go wide for a moment, tears still lingering on the fringe of his lashes, like dewdrops of the grass at dawn.

Then that familiar Matsuoka gleam flashes across his eyes, the silver tail of a shooting star (wish granted), and they crash against each other again, less friction, more sweat, bodies harder than the earth beneath their backs, messy, dirty, _hot_.

“Lose them,” Makoto orders softly, and Rin nods, removing his gloves to divest himself off his pants, dark leather peeling away from pale skin and corded muscles, moonlight covering old scars. 

"Breathe," he whispers as he twists slick fingers into Rin, watching the elegant line of Rin’s throat tremble like a vibrato beneath him, as he moans, colourful like an aria.

"You can handle this," he rasps out, almost at his wits end, as he finally slides inside Rin, smooth and familiar. He moves, and Rin throws his head back, their hips meeting at a rhythm matching their heartbeats. 

Like this, Rin could sum up what it means to live with the anchorless flex of his body, Makoto’s name rushing past his lips like a sacrilegious threat.

For a moment, Makoto forgets that he’s the one who started this game, mesmerized by the arch of Rin’s spine in the white gold light of the moon, wine red hair splayed wildly around his face, fiery eyes squeezed shut.  Overcome with a rush of emotion, he slows down and leans forward to kiss Rin again, slowly, sweetly, reminding himself that this is all real, that _Rin_ is real, and they’re still _alive_.

Then Rin’s eyes fly open, and Makoto catches the challenge in that gaze, watches as it spreads to Rin’s lips, scalpel grin, reminding him of the fact that Rin also possesses the blood of champions. This will not be over easy.

So when Rin snarls, sinks his teeth a little too deep into Makoto’s lip and sits up to push Makoto down to the floor, determined to take control, Makoto allows him.

Arms held above his head, he lets Rin sink down on his cock again, lets Rin rock against him like a firestorm, all furnace heat and brutal force (slam down, rise up, break the floor, break _me_ )

Makoto licks the blood off his lip, looks serenely into Rin’s fierce eyes, gloveless hands sliding down the slope of Rin’s thighs to rest on the curved bone of his knees, and whispers:

"Faster.”

In this kind of game, there are only winners.

~fin~


End file.
